Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

He'd say he feared for his pop's life and wanted two big ole football players there, but we let him down. Because she planned the killing, it's first-degree murder all the way. So you see, Rusty, there's nothing you can do to help. Every time you open your mouth, you hurt us. Guy knows that. In fact . . ."

Sometimes I have to think out loud. I'm not one of the smart guys who can get from A to Z without mouthing all the letters in between. But give me enough time and I'll get there.

"Rusty, you son of a bitch!"

"What?"

"He sent you here. He wanted to sucker me into using you."

"No. I swear."

"You're lying through your teeth," I said, using my granny's expression.

Rusty's shoulders seemed to slump. "Okay, okay. Guy told me to try and make amends with you. He didn't say why."

"You're dumber than you look, Rusty."

"All right, I made a mistake, but Jesus, Jake, I'm telling you the truth now. I didn't know what Guy and that bald shrink were up to."

"But you do now."

"Yeah, I think they fucked around with Chrissy's head. After the drugs and what her old man did to her, it was probably pretty easy. But there's nothing you or I can do about it. Guy Bernhardt's smart, Jake. Real smart. He plays that country farmer shtick, but he's no bumpkin."

"What are you saying?"

"That you're going to lose, Jake. Don't make it any harder on yourself. Just lay down. It's not like Chrissy didn't pull the trigger. I mean, she's a killer, right?"

"You can rationalize just about anything, can't you?"

"You don't know what you're up against."

"Get the hell out of here!"

Rusty stood and started for the door. "I'm sorry, Jake. I was just trying to help."

"Bullshit! You've never tried to help anyone your whole life. You were a chickenshit wideout who wouldn't throw a block on a corner 'cause it would muss your hair."

He stopped and turned. "Jake!"

"Oh, did I insult you? Pity. Maybe Guy will pay a bonus for your wounded feelings."

He left carrying his beer, and a moment later his Corvette kicked up a spray of pebbles from the driveway and tore off down the street. I resented the noise almost as much as the man who made it.

For once, I knew more than the prosecution. Not that it would do me any good.

Abe Socolow was Sergeant Joe Friday in the courtroom. Just the facts, ma'am. He didn't need to know, didn't want to know, every twist and turn in the lives of Chrissy and Guy Bernhardt and their father. I needed to know, but wherever I turned, the answers came out wrong.

"So did that tall glass of gin kill her daddy or what?" Granny asked me. She had driven up from Islamorada, toting a wicker basket containing conch chowder, white lightning, and jerk chicken. Kip carried a brown paper sack filled with Key lime marmalade, fruit chili, and other preserves Granny had put up.

"Chrissy pulled the trigger," I said, sorting through the goodies that now lay scattered across my kitchen counter. "But she was manipulated by her brother and programmed by the shrink."

"Just like Laurence Harvey," Kip said.

"Huh?"

"In The Manchurian Candidate. Brainwashed and trained to kill."

"Yeah, something like that."

"Can you prove it?" Granny asked.

"No," I admitted.

"Then what are you gonna do?"

I opened a mason jar and sniffed at the rye liquor. "Play soft defense. Bend but not break. Maybe Guy Bernhardt makes a mistake, and I get lucky."

Granny gave me her puzzled look. "You mean Socolow, don't you, Jake?"

"No. Abe's not the enemy. He doesn't even know what really happened. Guy Bernhardt does, and he's the opposition."

"Chrissy knows," Kip said.

"What?" I was taking a sip of the liquor, but my hand stopped in midtrack.

"I mean, if they programmed her, it's got to be in her head somewhere, doesn't it? Like flashbacks in the movies, where all you need is something to bring them back. I can always tell when someone's going to get one, 'cause there's a close-up of the person's eyes, and the music comes in a rush, and then everything goes to black and white."

"Flashbacks," I said, mulling it over.

"Yeah, like in Dolores Claiborne, only there they weren't black and white, just kinda a different color, and Kathy Bates could remember all this really bad stuff that happened to her."

Granny was looking at me sideways. "What are you thinking, Jake?"

"Just trying to figure how to bring up the music."

We started the day with housekeeping matters, both sides submitting proposed jury instructions, even though we were a week away from finishing the case. Judge Stanger granted my motion to exclude Luciano Faviola and Martin Kent as witnesses, ruling that the pattern of prior acts of violence was not similar enough to meet the Williams rule, and in any event, there was no question as to the identity of the shooter.

Abe Socolow's direct examination of Rusty MacLean was short and thankfully lacking in surprises. Rusty told the jury that he had been sitting immediately adjacent to a heavyset man at the bar. No, he didn't recognize the man, never saw him before. Mr. Lassiter was sitting right next to Rusty. The jury seemed puzzled by that. No frame of reference. Johnnie Cochran wasn't with O. J. on June 12, 1994, right?

The defendant, Christina Bernhardt, walked in. Sure, he'd recognized her. At one time, he was her agent, but you know how models are. Jump from agency to agency at the promise of better work. She wasn't more than ten feet away when she pulled out a gun and fired three times at the heavyset man. Hit him with every shot.

"What, if anything, did you do?"

What, if anything . . .? My profession has its little ritualistic questions. Once, in a lawsuit against a dressmaker for a botched wedding dress, the opposing lawyer asked my client, the bride, "What, if anything, were you wearing during the ceremony?"

"I was frozen," Rusty said, shaking his head. "I mean, I never saw